


A Breach of Crust

by Esteliel



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Bread Vore, M/M, Other, Slutty Bread, Vore
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-12
Updated: 2020-01-12
Packaged: 2021-02-27 05:54:02
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 810
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22202152
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Esteliel/pseuds/Esteliel
Summary: A soul for a morsel of bread.
Relationships: Javert/Jean Valjean, Jean Valjean/Bread
Comments: 3
Kudos: 18
Collections: Exchanges After Dark Birthday Bash 2020





	A Breach of Crust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [thedevilchicken](https://archiveofourown.org/users/thedevilchicken/gifts).



The house had been empty when Valjean returned. He had looked around carefully, making certain that he was indeed alone before he reached beneath his coat and reverently pulled forth the length of _baguette parisienne_ that had stared at him so lustily from a baker’s stall that he had not been able to resist the siren call of its perfectly golden crust.

All the way back home, his heart had beaten fast with forbidden desire, sweat running down his back as he walked past honest citizens on their way to the market, a park or the opera. He had kept his cap pulled down over his eyes, forcing himself to walk slowly, as though right there beneath his coat the warm, lusty body of the _baguette_ wasn’t pressing itself invitingly against him, tantalizing him with its seductive scent.

Now, at last, there was no more need to hide.

Valjean placed the _baguette_ on a plate, his hands shaking as he tenderly drew a finger across the hard crust, following the dips of its hills and valleys in a loving caress of the ribbed texture until he had to turn away with a helpless moan in his throat.

His fingers were still trembling as he drew off his coat. The room was filled with the scent of it—thick, warm, _rich_ , the marriage of fecund yeast and golden wheat, almost obscene in the way it filled the room with its heady perfume.

When he turned back to it, he was so overcome with lust that it seemed to him that the bread had miraculously expanded in size—no slender length of _baguette parisienne_ awaited him on them table. Instead, what posed there lasciviously on its virginal plate in the sunlight by the window had the inviting, immodest roundness of a _brioche nattée_ , a bulbous, gleaming crust that seemed to laugh at him in coquettish invitation.

As he approached, shivering with a hunger that could not be sated by anything but the soft delights of its warm insides, he could barely believe what he saw before him. Instead of the proud length of baguette that had nestled against his body beneath his coat in bold invitation, instead of the wanton curves of buttery _brioche_ , it was a _couronne de pain_ that awaited him—its perfectly round shape smiling at him, the central hole gaping obscenely open so that he found himself blushing even as he reached out with trembling hands.

Beneath his fingers, the rotund balls of doughy delight seemed to grow, increasing in size just like his own desire grew. His heart thudded in his chest until he was dizzy with longing, his mouth dry with the need to feel the bold hardness of its crust pass between his lips, the softest imaginable crumb sliding over his tongue with the texture of velvet, rich, yeasty warmth filling his stomach—and still the _couronne_ grew, its scent filling the air until he was gasping for breath. Sweat beaded on his forehead, his hands tightening on the obscene mounds of baked dough that now rose before him, still hot from the oven, a lewd, lusty circle that spread wider and wider for him.

The scent was so thick that he could taste it on his tongue, the _couronne_ so large that he could see nothing but the alluring bareness of the bread now, its vigorous bumps rising before him like the hills of paradise, beckoning him to sin with their uncovered vales of golden-brown. And still it grew, so large now that its enthralling body was all he could see. The ring of warm bread gaped open until it was large enough to spread first around his arms, then around his head, even around his shoulders, and still it swelled around him in yeasty abundance until all he could hear, all he could see, all he could taste was the glorious, oven-warm crust, surrounding him lasciviously while he surrendered to its bawdy embrace with tremulous ecstasy.

An hour later, when Javert returned from a stroll that had taken him past a boulangerie near the church of Saint-Sulpice, which he had left with a slender _ficelle viennoise_ in his hand, the house was silent once more.

Surprised not to be greeted by Valjean, Javert made his way into their sitting room. Valjean’s coat hung by the door; he had to be at home.

“Valjean?” Javert called out, but there was no answer. There was no sign of Valjean, even when he began to search the house with increasing confusion.

When he at last returned to the sitting room, Valjean’s coat was still hanging by the door. There was a faint scent of freshly baked bread that permeated the room—but the room was still empty, save for a suspiciously rounded loaf of _pain auvergnat_ , sitting by the window in a circle of golden sunlight.


End file.
